


Words to a Battered Mind

by Ryenan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Tattoos, home is where the heart is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you can't remember something? You write it down.</p><p>Bucky can't remember the way emotions slot together, so he writes it down - permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words to a Battered Mind

Bucky has a hard time remembering concepts - the important things, like home is where your heart (Steve) is; that he will feel less guilty if he uses his hands to help instead of hurt; that he is free and can do whatever he likes. Things, places, right and wrong – those are easier. He knows everyone’s address and phone number, has memorized the subway routes, and knows not to throw the first punch.

* * *

 

Steve finds him in the bathroom one night, dinner going cold on the table, and helps him write ‘home’ right above his heart. His hands might not shake, but the letters come out a little shaky for Bucky's shivering and sobbing. His shirt is ruined – “No big deal, Buck, the Seahawks are a terrible team” – and the sharpie on his fingers stains the cheap sink where he grips it tightly, but Bucky feels so much better.

* * *

 

The mark lasts for nearly three days, and whenever he feels lost in the expanse of the New York he presses hard and thinks of Steve. When it finally fades away, they draw it again and again. Nearly a month after that first night, Natasha slides in the window from the fire escape – the window unlocks with a fingerprint scan and password, thanks to Tony – and sees Steve carefully writing on Bucky, straight over the faded mark from a few days ago.

“I had wondered what that was.”

“Hello, Nat.” Bucky’s eyes are closed, head barely tipped back, hand resting on Steve’s knee. He looks calm, but both she and Steve can see he’s coiled to fight.

“Sorry for startling you, James. Steve, Maria is going to call-” Steve’s phone, on the kitchen table, starts to ring, cutting her off.

“Tell her you aren’t here?”

“You know me so well. Then finish up with Дедушка there and we can eat.”

“Are you going to cook, Внучка?” Natasha huffs at this, barely smiling.

"Not on your life. Thai?”

“Thai.”

The delivery address Natasha gives is to the empty apartment one floor down, but she meets the delivery boy out on the front sidewalk anyway. Over dinner and wine – nothing goes with curry, but they keep trying to find something decent – Natasha finally asks.

“Home is where the heart is?”

Bucky takes a sideways glance at Steve, who just keeps eating. Bucky is learning to not ask for permission, that he can make his own decisions, and Steve’s encouragements are too much like giving permission, so he refrains.

“Yes,” Bucky says slowly. “Because - ”

“Because it’s hard to keep focused on living instead of just keeping alive.”

Bucky smiles, slightly, nodding. “Exactly. I didn’t know how to say it, but that makes sense. I just – I need the reminder a little bit.”

“I have one too. It’s permanent, though.”

Natasha dips her napkin into her wine glass – “Your taste is terrible, this is cheap wine, Steve, don’t look so offended” – and pulls aside the collar of her borrowed sweater. She scrubs hard an inch or so below her clavicle until a small black arrow appears on her skin.

“For Clint.” The boys are quiet for a second before Steve’s eyes start to crinkle, looking wistful.

“Natasha…”

“What brand of concealer do you even use? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but I could use some of that.” They all laugh, a little sad and tinged with the long-standing exhaustion only the three of them can understand.

Natasha smiles, still a little tight, and smooths her shirt collar out. “I’ll get you some. Both of you. Don’t tell – “

“Anyone, we know. Hill wouldn’t like it.”

“Do you think - ” Bucky looks down, tracing over the thick letters that are barely visible, a dark smudge through a thin white shirt, “Do you think I could do that? Steve?”

“It’s up to you, Buck. But I think it’s a good idea; the marker ink isn’t likely to be good for you.”

“The woman who did my arrow – Paint Freestone – is quick and has a soft touch.”

“Give me a few days?”

“Sure. Do you want the rest of my curry?”

* * *

 

Natasha stays the night, slipping out when Steve gets up for his run, last night’s dress thrown in a bag but wearing her high heels with her sweatpants and stolen sweatshirt.

“Set up an appointment with Freestone, Внучка.”

“One night’s sleep is all you need? It’s never coming off, you know.”

Bucky looks back at Steve in the kitchen. “I know.”

* * *

 Paint comes to them, in the end – Bucky doesn’t want to leave home, and she wanted to see New York – and the short word goes on smoothly at the barest touch. Bucky immediately feels lighter – now, no matter what, even if he is separated from Steve – he will always have his reminder. No one cries, but they do take Paint out for dinner, and Broadway, and Bucky hugs her, surprising them all.

“You know, Дед , there was one mark I always wanted but can’t get.”

“Yeah?” It’s a special night, all three home and mostly uninjured, not worrying about someone out on a mission.  It’s a fight against metabolism and personal walls, but several bottles in and Natasha is feeling slightly blurred at the edges. Steve hadn’t even bothered, they wasted a lot of alcohol in the past trying to get him drunk before. Bucky just barely sips a beer, the taste reminding him of the old Brooklyn. 

“I thought it would be nice to get a red mark on my hands that I could have covered over in black, a little at a time, Whenever I felt I had done something good enough to count.”

“To wipe the red from your ledger?”

“Да. But the...красный появится,” Steve sighs, pulling the nearly empty bottle from her hands. Talking in Russian was a good time to cut her off.

“English, Nat, I don’t speak Russian.”

“And mine’s too rusty for much.” Bucky says rusty, but they all know he means de-programmed.

Natasha sighs at them, shaking her head.

“I can’t hide it on my hands.”


End file.
